


it does not envy (to be patient)

by templemarker



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:05:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1597646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/pseuds/templemarker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Patience,” Mavros said with twinkling eyes, “is a virtue.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“And you of House Shahrizai are a virtuous lot, aren't you?”</i>
</p><p><i>“</i>We<i> are,” Mavros lazily corrects. “You wound me, cousin. Do you not think us virtuous?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	it does not envy (to be patient)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Patience](https://archiveofourown.org/works/303737) by [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel). 



> Please note that this story is compliant with any and all content you might experience in Kushiel's Legacy canon.

They had wintered outside the City; partly in Montrève, and then to L'Agnance, where the sweet smell of apples still lingered. Imriel and Sidonie, older now, had given to Anielle the season as regent, a test of her mettle as ruler. 

It left them with a happy season, their two younger children fostered with family for a time, the hearth their own. But time came, in the cold breath left even as the Winter Queen cast off her hoary garb, that they were to be parted: Sidonie returning to the palace, Imriel to the business of House Shahrizai. Though Baptiste is the Duc de Shahrizai, he sends cousin Mavros to see to his business; and that is who Imriel will see again, as he so often does. 

They arrange their meetings at House Valerian, as they have done since they were striplings, with much to prove and far more to learn. Imriel enters cloaked, but the Dowayne's familiar smile, now more steel than sunshine, greets him as he arrives. "Sephira nó Valerian," he says, sketching her a bow this side of improper. 

"Your Grace," she replies, sinking into a deep bow; her Second and attendants follow. Imriel steps up to her, allows the back of his hand to caress her cheek; he smiles when it trembles. 

"It is ready?"

"Of course, your Grace," Sephira says, no trace of submission in her voice. "Your House suite is always prepared. Shall we escort your cousin in when he arrives?"

"Only once he has prepared himself to my request," Imriel says, nodding at his guard to keep their watch in the given quarters. Maslin, returned from Vralia long years ago and a steadfast companion, sketches Imriel an insouciant salute and a rakish grin. He will not be far from the Shahrizai suite; indeed, Maslin enjoys the aftermath of Imriel's business with his cousin far more than he would ever reveal. 

Imriel and the Dowayne conclude their business, and Imriel enters the Shahrizai rooms, leaving Maslin his vigil by the door, hot braziers licking heat at his surcoat and breaches. 

The adept is waiting, in perfect abeyance, no fabric touching his dark skin, no leather adorning him. 

Imriel looks at him, finding him pleasing, as he removes his outer clothes and boots. He pulls at his smallclothes, piling everything at the entryway. "Rise," he says, and the adept does so. "What is your name?" he asks, circling the adept, admiring his form and posture. 

"Martín León y Valerian," the boy says. 

"Aragonian?"

"Yes, your Grace," he speaks, falling silent as if those words were too much. 

"Martín, I am Imriel," Imriel says, skimming a finger along Martín's shoulderblade, smiling as the muscles jump beneath the skin but Martín makes no other motion. "Here, I am only Imriel, and you are Martín. Say my name."

Martín hesitates, clearly, and Imriel delivers a smack to his arse, enjoying his gasp. "My name, Martín."

"Imriel," Martín all but whispers, and Imriel digs his fingers where they just stung in reward. 

"Thank you, Martín," Imriel says. "My cousin will be joining us. You will not address him. You will not look at him. I have some cause to teach my cousin, and you will be an agent of my lesson. However, I did not pay your virgin-price for nothing," he says, brushing his thumb down Martín's cleft and across his hole, which already responds so greedily to his touch. "I will give you all you need and more; you must heed my words, you must listen to my touch. What is your signale?"

"Manzana," says Martín, and Imriel smacks him again. "Manzana, Imriel!" Martín gasps, rocking forward from the force of the blow. 

"Thank you, Martín," Imriel says. He takes the leather thong from the tray and hands it to his adept. "Take yourself in hand; when your prick would spill, tie this. You know how?" Martín nodded, eyes downcast. "Good, Martín. Stand there, by the brazier at the wall, and await my words."

Imriel sat down on the lounge, watching Martín and pulling the stopper from the oil, pouring it in a dish with a small candle below to warm it. He waits. 

It did not take long for Mavros to arrive, his normally seductive tone cut with irritation. "Honestly, Imriel, you need not ask me to wear this thing! It has only been five months; I'm hardly like to go off like a young shepherd in the woods from seeing you again." The firelight licked at his braids, streaked liberally with grey and worn as if he'd never gone a year past twenty. Imriel smiled to see him, but did not stand.

Mavros' eyes flicked from his King Consort to the adept against the wall, and his irritation transformed into a slow smile. "Ah, cousin," he said, bringing his fingers to his heart. "You love me too well."

"Aye," Imriel said. "I am like to think that is true." He gestured for Mavros to sit opposite him, and awkward thing with Mavros' bound cock bouncing in the air. Mavros gave no mind to it, and sprawled over the cushions as though he was born to do so.

"You see, my dear, our cousin Baptiste asked that you arrange the construction of a new port at D'Ollone, did he not?"

Mavros frowned, clearly trying to understand Imriel's point in asking. "He did, of course. You put the agreement before your Queen yourself, using royal gold to fund a portion of the cost; is your memory so ill, cousin, that you have lost this memory?" he smirked.

"Ah, cousin, it is not I who has lost," Imriel parried loftily. "You see, I have heard from beloved Roshana that the outfit assigned the contract to build the jetty and barge-lines have been talking for months before about the royal gold that would line their pockets." His gaze turned sharp. "Are you so sure of your affections that you would promise that which only I might deliver, in mine and my lady wife's name?"

Mavros turned confused, then shocked, then wary. "Fools talk," he said, chary.

"And fools would wager their nepotism as leverage when a commission is in the bargain," Imriel said severely, rising to his feet. "I do not hide my love for you, Mavros, but for Elua's sake do not waste it to your advantage! I am the King Consort first; my ties to House Shahrizai, and even to you, beloved as you are, rank far lower in my sight."

"Imriel," Mavros said, as Imriel towered over him, glowering, "Imriel, dearest, cousin, I meant you no ill. I did not look to take advantage of our friendship or your love; I only thought--"

"You only thought any contract you brought before me was a surety," Imriel said grimly, clasping Mavros' face in the palm of his hand, lacing fingers through Shahrizai braids and tugging, hard.

"Yes, my King," Mavros stumbled out, tears pricking his eyes from Imriel's hold. "For all the love I bear you, I was foolish. I will not be so again."

"No," Imriel said, and bent down to take Mavros' mouth with his own. He released the braids, and Mavros fell back, panting, against the chaise. "But I think you might need a lesson, as I did so long ago, one you taught me to great effect." He smiled, slightly. "Lying is no virtue, thus modesty cannot be. But patience..."

Mavros gasped, and then his eyes began to shine with something other than penitence. "Oh, Imri," he said. "Do teach me well."

"Martín," Imriel says, a simple command, and Martín is at his side in a breath. He begins to kneel abeyante, but Imriel catches him by the neck and raises him, bowing his young, wide frame back slightly so that his own bound prick and balls are on display. "I have paid his virgin-price, cousin," Imriel says, watching Mavros' arousal pitch in his eyes, flush his cock. "I have let no one touch him but me. Perhaps, should you show me the patience House Shahrizai values so highly in its nobles, I might see fit to reconsider my decision." His eyes went flinty once more. "Though he is no reward, for poor service and poorer dealings; think, instead, upon this as...incentive," Imriel said, mouth wicked. 

Mavros tightened his hands upon the chaise, spread his legs as if to ease some of the ache obvious in his prick, and nearly managed to smile. "I obey, my King," he said, as Imriel's hands began their work on the adept's body.

**Author's Note:**

> _Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> 1 Corinthians 13:4-6


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